First Nights
by Tobiume
Summary: A collection of intimate scenes between various characters in Game of Thrones.
1. Sansa

_First Nights  
_

_(Sansa)_

_A/N: I wanted to write short descriptive scenes from characters who I don't usually write about. Of course, I started with Sansa, who I'm used to writing about... but this story will later include Cersei, Samwell Tarly, Margaery, Catelyn Stark, and perhaps some others.  
_

**_Warning: This chapter contains a non-consensual (non-explicit) scene. _**

* * *

i.

Her elegant gown whispers to the stone floor as she sweeps along the corridor in her little husband's wake (_even _Rickon_ must be taller than him, now)_. She'd dreamed of such a gown, envisioned the fine silk that her handsome husband would carefully slip from her shoulders on her wedding night. But this odd, disfigured man can only just barely reach her waist unaided. She has almost managed to convince herself that the cold prickling along her arms is nothing more than an evening draft, that it has nothing to do with dreading what is to come, when her lord husband (_the words turn over in her head; still, they do not make sense) _stops before a door. Following him into the room, she wishes for a cloak, a shawl, anything she could wrap around her shoulders to ward off the chill (_ward off this night)_, but she has nothing.

He drunkenly compliments her neck and informs her that their marriage must be consummated. Well, she expected nothing less, but she turns to the wine. Wine will warm her, will give her courage.

She begins to undress, battling tears (_she must do her duty)_ as the embroidered fabric sighs against her skin, trying not to think of the wedding night she'd imagined. The man sitting on the bed waiting should have been young, tall, strong. He should have sat gracefully on the bed, not swung up with a hop on wine-unsteady arms. He should have had golden hair and a sweet smile… and here she stops, for she is thinking of Joffrey, who has shown himself to be cruel, vicious, unkind, for all that he is handsome. Although she is quite afraid of him, her thoughts stray to him at times. If he hadn't killed her father, would she have known that he was such a monster? Or would she still be blind?

Suddenly the Imp _(Tyrion. She must call him Tyrion) _tells her to stop, and she is nearly sick with relief at this unexpected reprieve. He promises her he will not touch her until she is ready. She will never be ready, not for him. He can find another woman with his Lannister gold, and she will wait for Robb to come, siege the castle, wake her from this nightmare.

But it is another nightmare she wakes to, when a hand across her mouth breaks her anxious sleep in the cold bridal bed. Joffrey's face hovers over her own, barely visible in the dim firelight. She tries to scream but his hand presses harder. His breath, hot against her ear, makes her shudder. "I promised you a visit, my lady."

She flails against Joffrey, but he does nothing. "Scream, and I'll have you killed." His whisper, heavily scented with wine, burns her cheek. He releases her and she lies shaking, frozen, as he lights a candle. She starts. Does he really mean to have her in his uncle's chambers, on her wedding night? Won't Tyrion see?

Apparently not, she realizes, as she hears a long snore. Joffrey reappears, laughing. "He couldn't do it, could he? I see no bloodied sheets. I knew my uncle wasn't man enough to take you. Well, I'll have you first, and he'll wake to bloody sheets. How will you explain that, my lady?"

All she can do is shake her head, too shocked to even cry. (_No, no, no. I thought wedding Tyrion was the worst thing that could happen to me.)_

Joffrey leans in, and she flinches, but all he does is caress her cheek with a finger. "My sweet lady," he says. "I did not want to let you go. They made me, you know. If I'd had my way, tonight would be our wedding night." His fingers find her loosened curls and comb through them, ending on her breasts, which are only lightly covered by her nightdress. He rubs them, awkwardly, as if he's uncertain what to do. Dumbfounded, she can do nothing but stare. _(He's being kind. It must be a trick.) _

His hand rises to her shoulders as his face nears hers. The smell of wine again crawls into her nostrils, and she realizes that he must be even drunker than Tyrion was. He grips her shoulders and kisses her clumsily, once, then again. She finds herself returning the second kiss, and he at once pushes her back onto the bed, his fingers dragging down her chest between her breasts. He shoves her thin gown up around her thighs, roughly running his hands between her legs. She shivers, but she's not sure if it's with cold, fear, or anticipation. Here is her sweet prince, once again. Joffrey plants damp, warm kisses on her neck, her chin, her cheek, and her lips, and she isn't sure if he's aimed them or can't tell what he's doing in the dark. "Sansa, my sweet," he murmurs again and again. "My lady. You'll never betray me."

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so she gives it. "I would never betray you, my king," she promises, although of course she already has.

His hand slips higher, shoving insistently at the top of her thighs, and when his fingers brush her, she feels _something_, but his hand stills and stops and he slumps against her, his mouth slack against her collarbone as the wine finally takes him.

And then she cries, because she cannot sleep, can do nothing but wait for the morning.


	2. Sandor

_First Nights_

_(The Hound)_

A/N: Sandor/Sansa implied.

* * *

ii.

The door of the whorehouse thuds shut behind him, and the raucous voices fall to a mutter. _That's right, shut your howling mouths. But I'm not here to kill any of you today. _His mail rattles as he strides through to the back, growling "Wine, and the girl" at the proprietor as he passes, not waiting to hear the man's "Right away, ser." He's fought enough lately. Now he wants to drink and fuck until he's forgotten about little birds and their stupid, useless songs.

He paces his usual chamber, wanting more wine, wanting to feel a warm body beneath his own, not caring whose it is. This is what he does. He hunts, he kills, he drinks, he takes whores, he leaps to the king's commands. _Hound, kill this boy. Kill that man. Fight him to the death. Bring me the Stark girl. Bring me the Stark girl. _

The boy-king is sick and twisted and becoming more so every day. When he was young, he tortured cats and dogs. Then his brother and sister. Then whores. Next, likely, his betrothed, his shy little bird. The king cares nothing for her, it seems. The Hound had nearly turned on his master when the king had ordered the girl to be left to the enraged mob, showing no concern for her fate. He'd gone back to save her, though he shouldn't have, as the king had not ordered him to find her. But his head had burned with fury, burned hotter than when the fire took him, and he'd ripped those men apart. Horrified her further. _This is what I do. I kill. Men kill. _He takes pleasure in killing. His power incites him. It's all he has. He cares little for torture though. Make it quick and be done with it. A good, clean kill. He is not his brother. He is not the king.

The Hound (_Sandor. I am Sandor)_ laughs bitterly. The little bird trembles at the sight of his face. Well, her king's beautiful one hides worse horrors. Her songs won't save her when His Grace gets his hands on her. Would that he could save her, but what does a dog do with a bird? For he is just a dog. The king's dog. He will never have her. One day he may be commanded to hunt her, hurt her, just as dogs are meant to do. And he'll do it, for he is the king's dog. _Fuck the king. _

The girl arrives with wine. She pours for him, meeting his eyes with a sweet smile. _This one looks me in the eyes, hides her fear_. Likely she's seen worse than him. What little the whore is wearing is soon on the ground. Under his mail he reeks of sweat, and his shirt is stained with rust, but the girl, lying on the bed, her brown hair thick and loose across the rumpled, much-used bedsheets, seems not to care. She spreads her legs as he leans over her, saying nothing, not even mumbling encouragement as he fumbles to enter her. This is how he prefers it. If he wanted to talk, he'd be back at the palace, listening to the women chatter in court. _Little bird, sing your songs. _

The girl's breasts are large and heavy under his hand. She is not new to her womanhood. His eyes close as the girl's cunt tightens around him, and he sees a different face. Startled blue eyes, pale cheeks, hair like flame. He wouldn't mind drawing that flame between his fingers. Wouldn't mind it sweeping across his scars.

She was a beautiful child, but now, the little bird has become a woman, which puts her in more danger. Soon she'll be wed to the king. One child for another, for all the joy it may bring them. How long will she last as queen? He'd wager a year, no more than two. The king tires of his toys quickly. Who better to know that than his dog? If she can lie well enough, it may be that he can protect her for longer. If she'll accept his help.

He finishes with the girl, gathers her hair in his hand, pulls her face to his. When he presses his rough lips to hers, she doesn't flinch. He's paying enough that she won't. She'll accept his kiss and mock him later. He knows the way of it, but what does he care?

Were he to kiss the foolish little bird, her fluttering heart might burst. She's a gentle lady, not used to ugliness (_she should be by now, in this place)_, though she tries to make up for her inability to meet his eyes with courteous words. But he has no use for words, no use for ladies. He is a dog, and nothing more.


	3. Cersei

_First Nights _

_(Cersei)_

* * *

_A/N: Cersei/Jaime, before Joffrey's birth._

_Jaime will come to me tonight, _Cersei thinks when she wakes. The sky, heavy with ugly gray clouds, begins to spit rain fretfully as Cersei's maid laces her into her gown. But Cersei's conviction pleases her, and she cannot remember the last time a day seemed so beautiful. _My wedding day, perhaps, but that quickly soured._ Cersei pushes the thought from her mind and orders the maid to dress her hair, thinking _Jaime is coming, _giddy as a child told they could stay up for the feast. She even neglects to slap the maid when she jabs a pin into her skull, instead accepting her stammered apology with a wave of her hand, merciful in her excitement.

It is not often that she and Jaime can snatch a moment together. Robert is a fool and would notice nothing, but there are others in the castle who have open eyes and loose tongues. Everyone is watching her these days, for signs of a child. She still has not conceived, but she has no desire to bear Robert any sons. He has begun to needle her, asking her crude questions about her health and her bleeding, and he's taken to visiting her more often, as is his right. His _right. _What about her rights? Why does she have none? She should have the _right_, should her husband say another woman's name on their wedding night, to press a pillow over his sleeping, wine-slack face. He was handsome then, but he grows less so every day. He drinks more wine at each feast, and his breath is always sour. The smell of his body pollutes her pillows and sheets long after he's taken his leave. She cannot bear the foul odor of his seed and has to struggle not to retch when he drunkenly spills it on her belly, her breasts, after she's had to raise him with her mouth because he's too drunk to harden on his own.

Jaime, who should have been her husband, drinks little wine, preferring to keep a clear head. His breath is sweet, and his body often smells of sweat, but his sweat excites rather than disgusts her. Jaime does not crush her breasts under his heavy hands, and he has never had any woman but her. Robert already has turned back to his whores, though their marriage is little more than a year old. She wishes him joy of them. If he's with his whores, he will not come to her, though she wouldn't be surprised if he tried to come to her chambers with one of his lowborn sluts. That, though, she can refuse. _Jaime would have his head if he tried to dishonor me so_.

Cersei has no wish for strife. _Not now_. She enjoys being the queen. It's not difficult to bear Robert's pawing, only distasteful. He doesn't last long, most nights, and he sleeps heavily afterward, leaving her free to do as she wishes. Sometimes she considers sending for Jaime, knowing Robert never wakes once he is asleep, but she always decides that the risk is too great. Tonight, though, Robert is gone from the castle, hunting with his men, and Jaime has remained behind.

The day crawls as Cersei tends to her duties. Tedious sewing for the poor and embroidery on a new tapestry occupy the morning. When the septa of one of her ladies expresses the fervent hope that soon there will be little princes and princesses to sew for, Cersei slaps her and sends her from the room. The other ladies murmur behind their hands, giving her looks of sweet concern. She sends them all away and sits alone, wishing for evening.

At supper she beckons for Jaime to stand behind her chair, as she sometimes does when Robert is away. He is her brother. His job is to protect her. Cersei eats little, but she sips her wine frequently, thinking of Jaime's hands on her skin, bare and warm in the firelight, and of his mouth between her thighs. _He _enjoys pleasing her. Robert likely knows nothing of how to please a woman. All he cares for is his own pleasure.

When the last course has finally been cleared, she rises abruptly and smiles sweetly at Jaime. "Escort me to my chambers," she commands. Her hair, left down as Jaime prefers, tumbles over her shoulders as she glances around the room. Robert prefers her to look queenly, so she leaves her hair loose like a girl's whenever she dares, and no one comments but Robert. No one dares, just as no one ever takes notice of the queen and her brother.

The walk to her chambers is silent. Cersei can feel her wetness spreading down her thighs as she walks, and the beat of her heart quickens. She imagines Jaime gathering her hair in his hands and inhaling her scent before he kisses her shoulders and throat, working open her laces with practiced hands. Jaime must know her body as well as his own, by now. Robert never excites her as Jaime does. He did, briefly, on their wedding night, but she dried up rapidly when he mumbled _"Lyanna"_ into her ear. The fool. It helped her, though, because it was easier to fake the pain of losing a maidenhead she has lost long ago. But it's been too long since she last lay with Jaime, and her body craves his touch.

He feels the same, she knows, because they are two halves. Meant to be together. Jaime proves this to her when he gathers her into his arms before the door has completely swung shut, pressing her toward the wall, gathering her heavy skirts in his arms to slide his hands up along her legs.

"Jaime,"she sighs against him, running her fingers through his hair, kissing his neck, catching his hand and bringing it up to rest against her breasts. He slips his fingers into the front of her gown, wiggles to try and loosen them from the tight fabric, and then heaves a sigh.

"Take these off before I rip them off," he threatens, and she laughs.

"Rip them." She wants to be desired like this. Robert has ripped her gowns in violence when she has refused to undress, but each action of Jaime's cleanses one of Robert's.

Her brother tears at her bodice and loosens her skirts. When she stands naked before him, he pushes his fingers between her legs, sliding them easily into her. Already unlacing his breeches, Cersei moans and grabs his hand, rubbing herself against his fingers as his clothing falls to the floor. Jaime groans and pulls away, picking her up and carrying her to the bed. She laughs in sheer joy. _This is what I should have had_.

He tosses her down, and she spreads her legs wide, but he only looks at her for a moment, able to restrain himself as Robert is not. Cersei knows she is beautiful and imagines what Jaime might be seeing. Her golden hair spread across silk sheets of the sheerest blue, her pale, smooth skin, glowing in the firelight, the curve of her hip as she turns on her side to look at him.

"You're the most beautiful woman," he says, his voice rough with desire. His cock is hard, of course, and she feels her body twitch in response to the sight of him.

"The most beautiful? You'll never want another?" It isn't fair that she has to submit to Robert. Jaime is faithful to her, and she only wants him.

"Why would I, when I have you?" He joins her on the bed, his golden hair falling gently against the face that is so like her own. She reaches up to stroke his chin, brushing his hair back behind his ears, then drawing his face down to hers. He kisses her, his hands wrapping around her head, locking her to him, every bit as hungry for her as she is for him. She pulls away, leaning over to take him into her mouth, but he pulls her back up before she can. "I don't need your tricks." His voice is gentle, and so are his hands, as he pushes her back onto the pillows and spreads her legs, stroking her briefly as he does. Cersei minds not at all when he takes his hand away to guide his cock into her, knowing that this night will be long and full of pleasure.

When he is inside her, she sighs, and her body shakes with its own sigh as she moves against him, bringing her hips up hard against his own, holding tightly to his shoulders as he thrusts into her. Their bodies know these motions as well as they know how to sleep, how to walk, but they never tire of each other. They never will. _ Jaime is hers, and she is his. The gods willed it so, or we would have found others. Robert would have been a kind and loyal husband, and Melara wouldn't have foolishly stumbled into the well. She would have married Jaime and borne him a fat son or two, by now. But here we are, together. The gods smile on us or it would not be so. _

Jaime's hands are warm on her back as he presses his body to hers. His teeth nip at her shoulder, lightly. He knows never to mark her, but she likes the rush of pleasure that shivers up her spine when his mouth closes on her skin. Her lips find his again and her breath spills from her mouth into his. She moves underneath him, pushing at his shoulders, wanting to turn him onto his back and climb on top. He lets her, breathing hard as he slips easily back into her. Cersei brings her body down hard against his, a low, long cry escaping her. Jaime is joined to her here only, but she can feel him everywhere in her body. Her fingertips tingle as her hand locks with his.

She presses their clasped hands back against the sheets and leans over him, letting her hair fall onto his chest. One of her legs dangles off the bed, and she rests it on the bedframe, using it for leverage as she brings her body down hard on him, again and again. He grips her waist, sometimes reaching up to caress her breasts, rubbing her nipples between his fingers, or down to stroke the spot between her legs. His groin and the golden hair between his legs are wet and sticky with her arousal, and she leans back on her hands, fucking him with all her strength. Sometimes Jaime likes to bend her over the bed and take her from behind, but sometimes he's content to lie back and let her have him. She knows he enjoys watching her breasts bounce, feeling her wetness dampen his skin, and she is pleased that she has this power over him. Jaime will always do as she wishes. He will never betray her, never hurt her.

Cersei moves faster as she feels her body tightening, her climax drawing nearer. Jaime feels it, too, and his fingers dig into her hips. He takes control from underneath her, finishing her with several hard, fast thrusts, leaving her panting and trembling, her hairline damp with sweat. A drop trickles toward her eye, but he wipes it away, and then pulls her close, still inside her. He rolls her onto her back once more and begins to move inside her again, starting slowly, then quickening his pace until he's fucking her so hard it almost hurts, panting raggedly above her. She knows she'll ache tomorrow, but it's the kind of ache she relishes. When she sits behind Robert in the throne room, listening to Robert's bored dispensation of justice, knowing she could rule far more effectively, she will feel this soreness between her thighs and relish her victory over Robert. _Jaime can do this to me, and you cannot. You can cause me pain, but you cannot have me like he can. _Cersei clenches the walls of her cunt around Jaime's cock, and he shudders, thrusts shallowly, grunting, and then slumps onto her. A sheen of sweat sticks their skin together, but Cersei doesn't move away until Jaime softens and begins to slip out of her. Then, she wiggles out of his grasp and takes him into her mouth, tasting the salt of his seed and her own lightly metallic tang. He lets her work her mouth over him this time, burying his fingers in her hair, and it isn't long before he's hard again, filling her mouth to the back of her throat.

She stands and beckons him to the carved chair Robert gave her as a gift for her last nameday. It's an ugly thing, heavy and dull, carved with hunting scenes. Robert would have done better to keep it for himself, but he gave it to her, likely as an insult, and she loves it when Jaime fucks her in it. He knows this, likely enjoys this victory over Robert as much as she does, and he sits in the chair readily, pulling her down onto his lap. Cersei rides him, holding tightly to his shoulders, biting his neck. It matters not if he bears the marks of her kisses.

When Jaime finishes this time, they are both spent, but still he settles her onto her bed, tugging the sheets gently up over her legs. He is the only person who shows her such tenderness, and sometimes it makes her want to weep. But she will not let him see her unhappiness, so she lets anger replace it. She is furious that the only person who loves her cannot hold her or touch her or show any affection anywhere but in her bedchamber. Furious that he cannot even spend the night by her side, lest they are discovered. She needs Jaime, and it isn't fair that she cannot have him. It's Robert's fault, for letting the dead come between him, for not marveling at her beauty and considering himself lucky that he should have such a clever, graceful queen. He cared nothing for her from the start, and for that she hates him.

"Sweet sleep." Jaime leaves Cersei with a lingering kiss, but she does not sleep. She stares into the fire until her eyes blur. She will bear Robert no children, she decides. Not now, not ever. The foul witch prophesied that she would bear three children, but when Cersei allows herself to remember the prophecy, she considers the fact that the witch did not specifically say that the children would be Robert's. They will be Jaime's children. If they look like him, well, that matters not, since she looks much like Jaime. As a Kingsguard, Jaime cannot marry, cannot father heirs. He gave that up to remain by her side. But she will give him the heirs he cannot have, and no one but the two of them will know.

Cersei sits up in bed and rings for wine and a bath. The maids are used to her odd hours by now and arrive promptly, as they should. She hates to wash the scent of Jaime from her skin, but she hates the sticky remnants of coupling more.

As she bathes, she thinks back on the evening. She's pleased she decided to confide in Jaime about her dread of breeding fat, black-haired fools. "Don't bear them, then. I'll fill you with golden-haired sons, and the fool will be none the wiser," he had said, making her heart swell with joy.

Jaime understands her like no one else. They are all each other has. But she will only give him one child, she vows. _I'll prove that witch wrong._


	4. Sansa II

_First Nights_

_(Sansa)_

* * *

_A/N: _This chapter wasn't supposed to be about Sansa again. I'm working on what was supposed to be the next chapter (it's from Jon Snow's perspective, for those who are curious), but I finished this first and felt it belonged here. The next chapter will be up before long!

I know this is an odd mix of book/show events, but I like both versions.

* * *

iii.

He has a gift for her, he says, a wedding gift, and so she follows him, uncertain, but she remembers a necklace and a kiss and a promise of love, and perhaps he is only trying to be kind once again. Over here, he says, where they can't see us, and yanks her arm, leading her out of sight of the crowd. He has no necklace this time, although he does kiss her, and mumble, in breaths even more heavily scented with wine than her new lord husband's, how it's wrong, all wrong, how he is the one who loves her. They are in an alcove, and he pulls a curtain to block them from sight, pushing her to the floor. A whimper escapes her throat as she feels the stone beneath her, cold even through the layers of her wedding finery. He shoves up the heavy skirts of her gown. "Try not to rip it," she cautions, echoing the queen's words from only hours before. "It was very costly."

Looking at her, he scoffs. "I am the king, and I'll rip what I like." He leers and tears a strip of lace from her skirt, then reaches up, his nails brushing against her thighs. Ripping aside her smallclothes, the finest linen she's ever worn, he presses a finger against her most private place, and then he isn't against her, but inside her. She shivers and shrieks, but his hand is against her mouth before her cry is audible. Her skirts fall between them, and she wriggles away, but he's on her again, shoving her skirts at her, telling her to hold them. His fingers fumble with the fabric, and she takes it without thinking, in shock as she watches his hand at the tie of his breeches. It isn't right, this is her wedding day, and there are people who might see. But somehow, it's not wrong, either. He's very close, and so she cannot quite see when he undoes his breeches, or the part of him that he now pushes between her legs. She doesn't protest again, only giving a soft cry into the shoulder that's suddenly against her cheek, at the unfamiliar feeling against her. Her legs widen. Did she spread them further? She isn't sure. But he touches her there, and then there's a sharp stab of pain.

He moans, his breath hot against her hair. "Sansa, my Sansa." She shivers, and the way he breathes into her makes her skin tingle. It doesn't hurt where they are joined anymore. She supposes they must be joined, still, since Joffrey is still moving against her, thrusting his body toward hers. There is a new feeling inside her, something is in her, and there is wetness, too, between her legs. It doesn't feel bad. In fact, it almost feels good. But then his teeth replace his lips, and she cries out, biting her lip too late. She doesn't want anyone to see them. What would that mean for her?

His breaths are rough and ragged as he claws at her shoulders, as if he is trying to shred her gown with his fingertips. "You're mine," he says, his whisper harsh. "I'll have you again tonight, any night, if I please. My uncle can leave or he can watch, it's all the same to me, but you're _mine_. Always."

"Until your last day," Sansa echoes, her own voice wavering as his fingers press in to her collarbone, then rise to rest against her neck. This boy is Joffrey, but somehow he isn't. It's easy to pretend the last months have never happened, so simple to shove them away deep in her thoughts and enjoy this embrace.

He looks at her with eyes that are somewhat glazed. His smile is slightly crooked, but it is there. "You remembered," he said. "Of course you remembered. You are my lady. It should be you," he says again, and there is a boy's petulance in his voice, but also a man's steel. Perhaps he is not such a child, now.

He gasps and shudders suddenly. Sansa still is not quite sure what is happening, but Joffrey clings to her tightly, his arms awkwardly wrapped around her chest. She finds it hard to breathe but thinks it unwise to say so. Finally he lets her go, gathering a fistful of the curls that trail from her neatly arranged hair and tugging them briefly. He clumsily kisses the corner of her mouth, and his mouth is not as wet as it was when he kissed her earlier, during the dancing. She almost thinks she likes this kiss.

Then he stands and turns away, clothing himself again as she sits on the floor. When he turns back he looks down at her, and his face lights up at something.

"Your blood." His voice is high and excited. "Your maidenhead. It's mine, I took it, not my uncle. You're mine, you're really mine!"

Sansa grows cold as she realizes exactly what has just happened. She is no longer a maiden. When she lies with her new husband tonight (a thought that makes her tremble), she will not bleed.

"What will I do?" she wails, feeling ill. "What will I tell Lord Tyrion?" During the brief span of time that she was crushed in Joffrey's embrace, she had forgotten what led to them being in this room together. But now, she remembers, and her heart thumps rapidly, painfully, as her head spins. It's all gone terribly wrong.

"Why should I care what you tell him? There's nothing he can do. I'm the king." Joffrey curls his lip, likely at the thought of his uncle. He has finished dressing and has his hand on the curtain that is all that hides them from whoever might be in the hall beyond.

"He can't do anything to you, but he can punish me. Tell everyone I'm not a maiden. I'll be worthless. Cast out." Sansa fights back a sob.

"He won't," Joffrey promises. "I'll have him killed first. You belong to me. You'll never leave King's Landing." He turns and stalks off without another word, shoving the heavy drapes closed with one hand.

Sansa's protest at being left alone, disheveled, ruined, dies in her throat as she thinks of baby birds, shuddering in their nests alone, waiting for mothers who will never return. She has already given up hope that she will ever leave King's Landing, but upon hearing the finality in Joffrey's tone, she can no longer keep back her tears. She's not only crying for her home, for the loss of everything she's ever loved. Once again, Joffrey has taken something from her that she cannot get back.

Although Sansa knows that she cannot spend what's left of her wedding celebration weeping behind a curtain, she cannot stop her tears. Her gown is still askew, and she hopes that she hasn't been bleeding on the skirts, but she cannot bring herself to care overmuch. It's hard to catch her breath, and she still has not collected herself when unsteady footsteps stop outside the alcove. At first, she almost doesn't notice them, but the sigh of fabric as the curtain is drawn back startles her into silence.

It is Lord Tyrion, her husband of a few hours. She tries to cover herself but she is not quick enough, and his ugly face twists into an even more frightening visage.

"So even my bride is no longer entirely my own. I should have expected no less from the king. I assume it was the king who was just here, as when I passed him in the hallway, he wore the cruelest look of satisfaction on his face that I have ever seen. And there is blood on your legs, unless someone has been very careless with their wine. I can't imagine how it could have spilled underneath your skirts, though, so I rather suspect that it is, in fact, blood."

Sansa hides her face in her hands. She cannot face him. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, again and again. "I'm sorry, my lord." It's true that he's ugly, like a gargoyle, but he has never been unkind to her. If only he were a bit handsomer, perhaps she could have brought herself to not mind the marriage. Maybe she could have liked him, even loved him, in spite of the fact that he was a Lannister. But he must hate her now.

There is a long, hard sigh and more footsteps. He is approaching her. She cringes, stiffening further when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Will he hit her?

"Look up, Sansa."

She raises her head slowly. The look on his face is bleak.

"We are all subject to the whims of the king. It is nothing to apologize for. I must instead apologize to you. I was not here to protect you. I have been your husband for less than a day, and I have already broken my vows." He drives his fist into the palm of his hand. "I cannot think that anything about this day is like the wedding you imagined."

Her own bitter laugh surprises her. "No," she agrees.

"Are you all right? Did he hurt you much?" He kneels next to her and tugs at her dress, straightening it, smoothing it with one awkward hand.

"No," she tells him. "I'm not hurt."

He offers his arm. "Would you prefer to speak no more of this?"

She looks at him blankly, then nods, once, wiping at her tears with her sleeve. "If it pleases my lord, I should like to forget it." Placing her hand in Lord Tyrion's, she rises. Her legs are shaky, and one pricks with pins-and-needles.

"Let us leave this farce of a wedding. It has been a long day, and I expect you would like to sleep, as tomorrow will likely be another long day. The days are all long, in this place." His face twists into something like a smile, and he leads her from the room.


End file.
